


Sea Deep Blue

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beginnings, First Kiss, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: Sherlock doesn't tell him where they are going. And John, being John, goes anyway.





	Sea Deep Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going through my old fic folders and finishing up stories that I'd mostly written but never completed. 
> 
> So I found this little mood piece and I'd always loved it but never finished it, until now.
> 
> Set before Reichenbach, so of course it ignores the last two seasons.

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't tell him where they were going.

Not that this was any great surprise. Sherlock often didn't tell him the where or the why and John only knew the how when he was riding along with it. In this case, it was a rented car and John, being himself, did what he always did and went along. He climbed in and Sherlock drove, and John could only sit and wonder what the hell was going on. 

It was strange and surreal and so much like any other day with Sherlock that he didn't question it. They took the Channel tunnel and not once had Sherlock said a word about the purpose of their trip past telling John to get in the car. 

John wondered what it said about him that he didn't question it. Eventually, the truth would come out. It always did. 

Not that they were silent, far from it. They conversed, in those bizarre esoteric conversations you seem to only have with people in the dark, like when you were laying on a bed together or driving down a dark, lonely stretch of road. Or when a person was with Sherlock; conversations like that were as plain as toast with him. 

They drove on, late into the night, until John woke in the morning, hardly aware of falling asleep, and the car was stopped. He got out to stretch, rubbed his gritty and aching eyes and saw Sherlock. They've stopped at a beach somewhere and Sherlock was by the water.

No, he was standing in the water, John realized. Coat discarded on the sand, like the peel off a fruit, his trousers rolled up and Sherlock was knee-deep in the surf.

He either didn't notice or didn't care that the water was lapping at the edges of his trousers, darkening the fabric against his knees. John rubbed his dry eyes wearily and staggered out towards him, wakefulness coming slowly in the lazy mid-morning heat.

He still felt drowsy, toeing off his own shoes and socks, yanking up his jeans so that he could slosh out after him. He had no idea what Sherlock could be looking at, the gleam of the ocean before them, the sun rising overhead.

Once, he might have believed that Sherlock didn't see the simple beauty of it; most anyone who met Sherlock would believe that.

It made him slightly ashamed to think of that now.

"Lovely sight," John ventured, softly. The crashing surf was loud, threating to tear his words out of earshot but Sherlock twitched slightly, turning his head enough to catch a sliver of a glimpse over his shoulder.

"It is," Sherlock said simply.

John looked down at the water, the darkening edges of his jeans as they sagged down into the ocean. They'd be crusted in salt in no time and they hadn't brought any luggage. They'd have to find a laundry of some sort.

It was really not surprisingly how little John cared.

"Where are we?" he asked, eventually, still willing to bask in the loveliness around them but curious.

"Does it matter?"

"No," John admitted, softly. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock tipped his head slightly at John, a silent inquiry.

It flowed from his tongue in a natural fall, the question he hadn't wanted to ask came easily, here, "What are we doing?"

He watched as the stiffness flowed into Sherlock's shoulders, the tight strain of fabric as he hunched forward slightly. "I've been asking myself that question for some time, John."

John took a slow breath, let it out, "No, I just...I mean, why are we doing this? Why are we driving halfway across bloody Europe, why are we _here_ , wherever here is."

"I needed some room to think," Sherlock said, softly. He tipped his head back, dark curls catching on his shirt collar as he gazed up at the blue sky. "London felt claustrophobic."

It made John smile a little, helplessly. Only Sherlock would need an entire continent to clear his head.

"And so you brought me along for the ride?"

"You are never along for the ride, John," Sherlock said instantly. "That implies uselessness and you are never useless."

Again, that bright spark of warmth, like a reflection of the sun, lit behind John's breastbone and he smiled again, ducking his head a little, "And have you thought things through, then?" he prompted. "Come up with the answer?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock said distantly, his eyes still on the sky and it made John reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder as though to pull him back down. As though he could; Sherlock was as brilliant as a star, always above everything, and John was...not. He was as plain as his name, vanilla ice cream and porridge bland, and it was probably that plainness that drew him into the excitement, into the Army, into Baker Street, into the sphere of Sherlock Holmes.

He could feel the line of Sherlock's spine through the thin linen of his shirt, his body warmth bleeding through it and John rested his hand there a moment, simply feeling it, and it was enough of a distraction that he didn't step back when Sherlock turned to him, only looked up into pale eyes, long-fingered hands rising and cupping his face. Instinct, perhaps, to follow them, didn't he always follow Sherlock?

Into crime scenes and private homes, hiding behind rubbish bins and in basements. He'd followed him into a rented car without so much as a question, let Sherlock take him anywhere he liked. He was like a bottle in the ocean, carried along by the current, jostled by the waves and taking on water but still bobbing along, wasn't he?

It never occurred to him to flinch when warm lips touched his own, when Sherlock sighed against him, one shaky little sound barely heard over the roar of the ocean. A strong wave knocked into John's legs and he staggered, taking Sherlock with him as they both clutched each other unsteadily, lips sliding against each other.

Somehow, John was clutching Sherlock's shirt, two fistfuls of expensive linen crumpled into his fingers and Sherlock was breathing into his mouth, punctuating each breath with a soft kiss, a flicker of tongue skating over John's lips. He tasted salt air and wetness, tasted the unexpected sweetness of Sherlock's mouth against his own.

John found himself blinking against too-bright sunlight as Sherlock pulled away from him, gently loosening John's hands from his shirt. He didn't step away, only held John's hands in his own, his thumbs pressed into the cups of John's palms. "That was my answer, John," Sherlock said softly and his eyes were as bare as a wave-worn stone, the smooth, clear gray of the ocean after the storm. "I think you know the question."

"I think--" John took a deep breath, tightened his hands convulsively, as though Sherlock might withdraw before he could think of what to say. Sherlock made no such move, only stood there, placid as he never was. He'd made his choices and now John had to answer to them. "I think you…you brought me here," John said with growing realization.

Sherlock mouth quirked slightly, "Very good, good deduction."

"Here?" John asked, looking around them. "Why here?"

"Do you like it?" Sherlock countered. His grip on John's hands tightened, briefly. "You like the ocean. You mentioned that before your father died, you and your family went on holiday. You sounded...fond."

It made John laugh, a giddy, high sound of delight. "I am...was...but they have oceans in England, Sherlock!"

"No. They have water in England, we're surrounded by it. This," And Sherlock let John go to sweep his hand towards the water. It was as impossibly blue as a dream, a fantasy of water that couldn't possibly exist except it was splashing warm over John's ankles as they spoke. "This is an ocean!"

"I suppose I can't argue that," John said, softly. He stepped in closer, let their shoulder's brush. "And you wanted me to see this?"

"No, no, I wanted to _give_ you this," Sherlock pushed an irritable hand through his hair, "And I needed time to think."

"You can't give me the ocean," John laughed again and he felt drunk on salt air and seawater, on Sherlock's indignation, on the entire day and it wasn't even noon.

"I can," Sherlock said firmly. "And I am. Aren't we here, standing right now in your ocean?"

"I suppose we are at that," John agreed and his laughter softened as Sherlock turned back to him, crowded into him again and pressed another kiss to his mouth, a soft, quick touch.

"I had to bring you here. I had to give you this when I realized I was in love with you," Sherlock told him between kisses, "Because if I told you first, I might never have gotten another chance."

"Sherlock--" John tried to protest but Sherlock was all hands and every one of them was dragging John in, still caught in the damned current, and each kiss was a bit deeper, a bit longer, Sherlock tongue quick and too clever to get caught by his own until John was panting in frustration and nearly ready to push Sherlock down into the sand.

"I wanted to give you this," Sherlock gasped out insistently, "Whether or not you loved me back. I needed to give you _something_."

John didn't have the heart to tell Sherlock that most people settled for a ring. He could hardly complain, could he, not when he suddenly had an entire ocean.

-finis-


End file.
